POEMS 


THE    STORY 


RAYMOND    HILL, 


OTHER  POEMS. 


JOHN   DENNISON   BALDWIN. 


&fctt>a$  t>ie  inncre  ©timme  fyridjt, 
$  tmifdjt  tie  (jpffcnbe  ©eete  nidjt. 


BOSTON: 

WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR   &  COMPANY. 


MDCCCXLVIt. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847,  by 

JOHN  DENNISON  BALDWIN, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON: 

PRINTED  BY  THURSTON,  TORRY  AND  CO. 
31  Devonshire  Street. 


THE    STORY 

OF 

RAYMOND     HILL 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS, 


MRS.    MARY    H  0¥IT  T, 

Of  England, 

IN  TOKEN  OP  ADMIRATION 
FOR  HER   CHARACTER, 

AND 

GRATITUDE  FOR  THE  PLEASURE 

DERIVED 

FROM   HER  VOLUMES. 


PREFACE. 


THESE  poems  are  firstlings.  They  are  published,  not  be 
cause  I  suppose  they  have  any  very  extraordinary  merit,  nor 
because  I  have  no  hope  of  writing  something  better  ;  but 
because  I  think  they  will  find  friendly  readers,  and,  imperfect 
as  they  are,  do  something  to  encourage  others  to  love  Truth 
and  Beauty,  —  and  love  them,  not  as  abstractions  merely, 
but  as  realities  to^>e  felt  and  manifested  all  along  the  ways 
of  human  life. 

Excepting  one  of  the  shorter  pieces,  the  first  and  second 
parts  of  the  Story  of  Raymond  Hill,  were  chiefly  written 
sometime  earlier  than  the  rest  of  the  volume.  This  may  be 
a  reason  why  I  regard  them  as  the  most  imperfect  portions  of 
it.  The  other  parts  were  written,  partly  to  finish  what  was 
begun,  and  partly  because  I  saw  no  reason  to  distrust  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  with  which  I  began  the  story. 


VI  PREFACE. 

I  think  there  are  loving  ones,  in  the  world  around  me, 
who  will  sympathize  with  the  thoughts  and  feelings  I  en 
deavor  to  express ;  and  who,  if  they  find  my  expression  quite 
imperfect,  will  nevertheless  treat  me  kindly,  believing  thai 
my  thoughts  and  feelings  are  not  altogether  affected. 


J.  D.  B. 


KILLINGLY,  CONN. 
FFBRUAUY5,  1847. 


CONTENTS. 


RAYMOND    HILL. 

MOB 

PART   FIRST         .                  .                 .                 .                 .  .11 

PART    SECOND             .....  29 

PART   THIRD         .                 .                 .                 .                 .  .47 

• 

PART   FOURTH            .....  67 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

RED  JACKET,    AT  THE  OLD  HUNTING  GROUND          .  .         89 

GOD'S   LIGHT   BRTNGER            ....  93 

THOUGHTS   AT   A   BRIDAL                .                 .                 .  .99 

AN    HOUR    OF   SADNESS                             .                 .  103 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

THE   DARK   ROOM             .                 .                 .  .                 .107 

LITTLE   MARY  — A   SKETCH                 .*  .                 .                 Ill 

THE  CHILD'S  GRAVE    .            .            .  .            .118 

HOLY  LAND  .           121 


STORY  OF  RAYMOND  HILL. 


RAYMOND    HILL. 


PART  FIRST. 


'T  is  spring,  the  time  when  skies  are  flushing 
With  richer  smiles  and  warmer  hues,  — 
When  rainbow-color' d  life  is  gushing, 
Where  balmf  winds  their  breath  diffuse. 
The  meadows  feel  the  blossoms  springing 
To  drink  the  light  of  vernal  skies, 
And  all  the  happy  birds  are  singing 
As  if  they  lived  in  Paradise. 
The  all-pervading  Life,  effacing 
The  touch  of  winter's  drear  annoy, 


i  RAYMOND   HILL. 

On  forest,  field,  and  sky,  is  tracing 
The  anthem-airs  of  summer  joy. 
How  Nature,  with  a  smile  divine, 
Dispels  the  very  thought  of  sadness, 
Forbids  the  loving  heart  to  pine, 
And  fills  it  with  a  rapturous  gladness  ! 

The  sunset,  beautiful  as  ever, 
Is  goldening  valley,  hill,  and  stream,  — 
And  all  things  fair,  with  glad  endeavor, 
Return  the  kiss  of  every  gleam. 

With  quivering  light 

The  air  is  bright ; 

Waves  of  lingering  sunset  shimmer, 
Through  the  murmuring  forest  glimmer, 
And  seem,  the  trees  and  leaves  among, 
A  visible,  shining  spread  of  song. 
The  lake  in  azure  stillness  lies, 
Communing  with  the  clouds  and  skies. 
The  spire-like  mountain's  broken  crest, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  13 

And  rocky  sides,  are  gaily  dress'd, 

With  foliage  green 
"""And  glittering  sheen, 
And  hang  beyond  the  valley  forth, 
Picture-like  against  the  north. 
Those  fleecy  cloudlets  seem  to  shun, 
In  dread,  the  coming  dark  of  even, 
And  stand  around  the  setting  sun, 
Like  souls  before  the  gate  of  heaven. 

In  Weston  dale,  one  creature  only 
Beholds  the  sunset,  sad  and  lonely. 
Beside  the  brook  so  gay  and  hale, 
That  wanders  singing  through  the  vale, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  clustering  vines, 
A  solitary  youth  reclines. 
His  cheek  is  resting  on  his  hand ; 
His  eye,  that  turns  without  command, 
Has  not  a  gleam  that  shows  delight, 
Though  every  thing  around  is  bright. 


14  RAYMOND   HILL. 

Too  busy  with  itself,  his  soul, 
Of  eye  and  ear,  has  no  control ; 
His  working  features,  well  revealing 
The  inward  stir  of  mighty  feeling, 
Of  some  great  anguish  tell  too  plainly, 
With  which  his  spirit  struggles  vainly ; 
And  when,  a  moment,  thought  is  given 
To  aught  beneath  the  smiling  heaven, 
His  darken' d  soul  repels  the  light, 
And  broods  as  in  the  gloom  of  night. 

The  light  and  loveliness  of  Nature, 
With  sweet  enticement,  charm  and  grace 
The  life  of  every  loving  creature, 
That  feels  and  breathes  in  her  embrace. 
And  yet,  the  all-o'erflowing  splendor, 
Through  every  sight  and  every  tone 
Forever  melting,  warm  and  tender, 
Flows  not  from  outward  shows  alone. 
The  landscape  shineth,  in  its  glory, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  15 

To  such  as  inwardly  rejoice  ; 
The  blossom  tells  an  angel's  story, 
To  such  as  know  the  angel's  voice. 

Poor  Raymond  Hill !  he  does  not  glow, 
With  Nature's  loveliness  enchanted; 
He  sees  his  soul  in  every  show, 
And  that,  he  feels,  is  spectre-haunted. 
And  why  has  he  this  look  of  wo, 
When  life  should  have  a  sparkling  flow  ? 
And  why  has  pain  this  stern  dominion  ? 
When  thought  should  sail  on  careless  pinion, 

Soaring,  gleaming, 

Seeding,  dreaming, 

Through  Fancy's  strange  delicious  sky, 
Entranc'd,  yet  hardly  knowing  why. 
Though  later  years  may  wear  the  token 
Of  many  a  hope  forever  broken, 
Our  twentieth  birthday  seldom  brings 
Much  more  than  light  upon  its  wings. 


16  RAYMOND   HILL. 

Not  so  with  Raymond ;  on  the  page 
Of  his  young  life,  the  last  two  years 

^ 

Have  left  the  traces  of  an  age, 
And  steep' d  his  very  soul  in  tears. 
His  eye  is  alter'd,  yet  how  well 
Remembers  all  before  its  gaze  ! 
For  every  rock  and  tree  can  tell 
Full  many  a  tale  of  other  days, 
Those  heavenly  days  of  boyhood's  life, 
With  such  exquisite  raptures  rife, 
When  dreaming  boyhood's  graceful  ways 
Made  being  seem  a  hymn  of  praise, 
Disturb'd  by  no  inwoven  sorrow, 
By  no  foreboding  of  to-morrow. 

Not  always,  as  an  evening  star, 
Does  Memory  shine  serenely,  far 
Along  the  past,  on  days  of  gladness ; 
Too  oft,  she  wakes  the  rage  of  madness. 
As  busy  memory  brings  anew, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  1 

To  Raymond's  thought,  all  warm  and  true, 

His  former  self,  as  then,  in  dreams 

Of  golden  exhalations  wove 

Prom  boyhood's  heart,  along  the  streams 

And  through  the  fields,  he  loved  to  rove, 

The  sense  of  what  he  must  be  now, 

Works  fury-like  along  his  brow. 

Near  where  the  spire  looks  through  the  trees, 
His  widow'd  mother's  roof  he  sees ; 
Longs  to  be  there ;  but,  cannot  frame 
A  resolution  strong  as  shame. 
State-prison  !  quivering  with  the  word, 
The  chords  of  agony  are  stirr'd, 
Till  madness  through  his  soul  is  stealing 
With  every  thought  and  every  feeling. 
No  glaring  lineaments  of  sin, 
Englow'd  by  teeming  hell  within, 
So  fiercely  rouse  the  swift  demand 
Of  scorn,  as  this  terrific  brand, 


18  RAYMOND   HILL. 

By  which  we  deem  the  sinner  awful, 
And  doubt  if  charity  be  lawful. 

The  sweet  enchantment  hovering  round, 
The  gentle  grace  of  sight  and  sound, 
Along  his  brooding  spirit  flow, 
And  thrills  of  tender  warmth  bestow. 
Some  soothing  touches  gently  win 
Their  way  along  the  dark  within. 
Ah !  how  he  yearns  for  hearts  to  love  him, 
As,  in  the  branches  there  above  him, 
Her  evening  hymn  the  robin  sings, 
And  wakes  a  dream  of  holy  things  :  — 
"  Bosom'  d  in  a  glow  of  beauty, 
Being's  happy  pulses  move, 
Sweet  as  music,  feeling  duty 
Means  the  radiant  ways  of  love. 
Oh  !  we  robins,  fleeing  sadness, 
Study  music  every  day, 
Drink  at  every  fount  of  gladness, 


RAYMOND    HILL.  19 

Hear  what  smiling  spirits  say :  — 
And  we  sing  our  heavenly  Father, 
Full  of  bliss  among  the  flowers, 
Seeking  round  our  nests  to  gather 
All  the  light  of  sunny  hours." 

The  robin  glistening  through  his  mood, 

A  flow  of  tearful  longing  brought ; 

A  keener  sense  of  solitude 

Gush'd  in,  to  edge  his  painful  thought. 

How  he  would  strive  to  merit  love, 

Redeem  his  tainted  life,  and  be 

Un  stain' d  !  but  tears  cannot  remove 

The  blighting  curse  of  infamy. 

m 

In  early  childhood,  Raymond  grew, 
To  every  kindly  impulse  true ; 
His  mother's  love  his  only  guide ; 
And  she  had  little  else  beside. 
Of  father,  dead  ere  he  could  frame 
Sufficient  speech  to  say  his  name, 


20  RAYMOND    HILL. 

He  nothing  felt  or  cherish' d,  save 
The  lessons  gather'd  at  his  grave. 
It  may  be,  that,  in  motherhood, 
A  feeling  dwells,  not  understood 
By  him  who  could  not  have  the  part, 
To  bear  his  child  so  near  the  heart ; 
Yet,  true  and  holy  from  above, 
Was  sent  the  father's  different  love, 
And  childhood's  guidance  best  is  done, 
"Where  both  unite  and  act  as  one. 

As  Raymond  grew  beside  his  mother, 
Her  yearning  love,  that  had  no  other, 
Did  much  to  keep  his  childhood  sweet, 
And  free  from  many  a  noxious  heat, 
Tho',  oft,  indulgent  tenderness 
Prevailed  to  make  its  wisdom  less. 
Within  the  boy.  as  soon  he  show'd, 
A  high,  impetuous  nature  glow'd ; 
A  nature,  over  which  should  rule 


RAYMOND   HILL.  21 

A  wiser  hand  and  truer  school. 
To  see  him  bounding  to  his  plays, 
One's  eye  grew  loving  with  the  gaze, 
Such  beauty  on  his  face  was  blushing, 
Such  warmth  in  every  glance  was  gushing. 
Yet,  blood  so  swift,  on  poisonous  food, 
Too  soon  becomes  a  fiery  flood, 
Burns  every  tie  of  right  control, 
And  works  perdition  through  the  soul. 
The  mother's  tireless  care  of  love, 
Entirely  fruitless,  could  not  prove ; 
The  boy  drew  in,  from  each  caress, 
Some  virtue  from  its  holiness ; 
But  on  his  lifef  too  much  neglected, 
By  reinless  impulse  oft  directed, 
Some  lines  began  to  show  their  trace, 
That  marr'd  its  fair  enchanting  grace. 
A  dusky  mist  began  to  blight 
His  early  childhood's  lustrous  light, 
That  dimly  gather 'd  into  haze, 


22  RAYMOND   HILL. 

All  o'er  his  sweet  and  winning  ways ; 
For,  springing  there,  the  good  to  kill, 
Were  intermingled  germs  of  ill. 

But  'twas  not  merely  absent  care 
That  gave  to  wrong  its  growing  sway ; 
Grim  vice  had  busy  teachers  there, 
With  subtle  skill  to  lead  astray, 
Whose  wizard,  thought-bewildering  lips, 
That  breath' d  around  the  listening  youth. 
Within  his  fancy,  worked  eclipse 
All  o'er  the  dawning  glow  of  truth, 
And  made  the  paths  of  evil  seem 
The  garden  ways  of  joy  extreme, 
With  every  sweet  enchantment  glowing, 
With  rosy  radiance  overflowing, 
Whose  murmurs  through  the  senses  sing, 
And  every  warmest  rapture  bring. 

Among  these  teachers,  there  was  one, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  23 

Who  chiefly  shap'd  in  Raymond's  heart, 

An  evil  mood,  that,  when  begun, 

Went  on  to  play  an  evil  part. 

For  many  a  year,  old  Jacob  Green, 

Afar  by  sea  and  land,  had  roved ; 

All  poisonous  forms  of  vice  had  seen,  — 

All  poisonous  forms  of  vice  had  loved. 

And  he  had  roved  in  many  a  clime, 

Where  men  had  made  the  very  air 

Ablaze  with  every  lurid  crime, 

And  every  desperate  passion's  glare. 

His  heart,  that  early  went  astray, 

There  flung  the  last  restraint  away, 

With  evil  form'i  the  strictest  union, 

And  liv'd  with  fiends  in  close  communion. 

In  every  sin,  he  stood  the  first ; 

Was  never  led,  but  led  the  worst, 

With  desperate  will,  whose  dreadful  trace 

Was  graven  deeply  on  his  face. 

In  every  feature,  was  discern' d 


24  RAYMOND   HILL. 

What  fires  of  guilt  had  inly  burn'd. 

He  came  a  stranger ;  none  could  tell 

The  history  of  his  league  with  hell. 

But  some,  around  whose  shuddering  thought, 

His  look  a  sense  of  evil  wrought, 

Believ'd  that  Green,  for  many  years, 

Had  sail'd  with  lawless  buccaneers ; 

And  many  whisper' d  their  belief, 

That  he  had  been  a  pirate  chief. 

He  wished  the  meed  to  honor  paid ; 
With  surly  courtship  sought  to  win 
But  every  voice  a  tone  betray'd, 
That  had  not  honor's  reverence  in  it. 
He  dwelt  among  them,  quite  apart, 
By  many  fear'd,  and  lov'd  by  none; 
He  never  met  an  open  heart ; 
In  every  crowd  he  seem'd  alone. 
His  sullen  eye  and  daring  gait 
Oft  woke  a  shudder  where  he  went, 


RAYMOND    HILL.  25 

And  yet,  that  eye  could  fascinate, 
When  guilefully  on  Raymond  bent. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  serpent  guile, 
That  lit  his  features  with  a  smile, 
Lurked  in  his  voice,  and  charm'd  his  lip, 
To  win  the  boy's  companionship. 
Perchance  it  was  a  better  feeling, 
His  sense  of  loneliness  revealing, 
A  yearning  wish,  that  would  intrude, 
And  brood  amid  his  solitude, 
A  trusting  fellowship  to  find 
In  one  at  least  of  human  kind. 

Nor  all  in  vain,  did  he  employ 

His  wiles,  to  win  the  guideless  boy,  - 

Who  ceased  to  fear,  began  to  love, 

And,  with  confiding  spirit,  strove, 

Ere  long,  to  emulate  the  mood, 

That  flushes  crime  with  hues  of  good. 

Long  hours,  the  pair,  in  sunny  weather, 


26  RAYMOND   HILL. 

Wander 'd  or  sat  alone  together, 
Within  the  woods  that  skirt  the  vale, 
While  Jacob  told  some  thrilling  tale 
Of  dire  adventure,  crime,  and  blood, 
In  which  he  made  it  understood, 
That  lofty  manliness  requires 
The  soul  to  burn  with  lurid  fires. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  mean  to  wake 
The  demons  there ;  but,  while  he  spake, 
His  words,  like  slimy  vipers,  stole, 
Unhinder'd,  through  the  listener's  soul, 
Diffusing  venom,  where  they  went, 
To  nurse  the  germs  of  dark  intent. 

The  stains  of  evil  grew  apace, 
While  men  beheld,  with  boding  face, 
From  Raymond's  soul,  to  which  were  given 
Such  glowing  lineaments  of  heaven, 
The  health  and  beauty  disappear, 
In  Jacob's  festering  atmosphere. 


RAYMOND    HILL.  27 

The  poison  work'd ;  at  length,  the  flood 

Of  livid  passion's  angry  blood, 

Arous'd  by  such  incessant  art, 

Rose,  steaming,  sweltering,  round  his  heart. 

His  fancies  grew  degenerate  ; 

He  caught  the  vengeful  tone  of  Hate ; 

His  teeming  blood,  as  evil  grew, 

The  livid  mood  began  to  brew, 

That  fiercely  glares  vindictive  strife, 

Nor  cares  if  red  with  human  life. 

It  was  not,  that  his  soul  within, 
Disown' d  the  grace  of  Love  and  Duty ; 
Nor,  that  a  sea^d  love  of  sin, 
Expelled  all  inward  Light  and  Beauty. 
The  fascinating  spell,  that  bound  him 
And  made  his  evil  passions  start, 
Was  nursed  by  noxious  things  around  him, 
And  not  by  fiends  within  his  heart ; 
From  Jacob's  tongue  the  poison  filtered, 


28  RAYMOND   HILL. 

In  which  his  thought  and  fancy  sweltered. 
But,  through  a  haleful  air  refracted, 
The  holy  light  was  very  strange  • 
And,  what  he  felt,  alas  !  he  acted ; 
He  gave  his  troubled  passions  range, 
And,  ere  his  eighteenth  summer  came, 
Was  doom'd  to  wear  a  branded  name. 


EAYMOND   HILL. 


PART   SECOND. 


ALONG  the  churches'  holy  places, 
A  golden  glow  of  living  graces, 
The  light  of  thoughts  and  lives  divine, 
Should,  evermore,  serenely  shine. 
But  Form  its  chilling  shadow  flings, 
To  quench  the  light  of  holy  things, 
That  mourn,  amid  the  darkness  lying, 
Like  voices  in  a  desert  crying. 
How  many  virtue's  honor  claim, 
Because  they  loudly  cry  her  name, 


30  RAYMOND  HILL. 

With  show  of  utterance  very  holy, 
Enton'd  with  pious  melancholy  ! 
How  many  bid  us  reverence  them, 
Because  along  a  mantle-hem, 
Quite  free  from  sullying  touch  or  stain, 
Some  holy  words  are  written  plain ;  — 
Or  bid  us  stand,  rebuked,  to  see, 
In  them,  the  holiest  men  that  be, 
Because  they  always  find,  with  ease, 
The  wardrobe  of  the  Pharisees, 
And,  every  week,  their  foreheads  garnish 
With  glossy  Pharisaic  varnish ; 
While  earnest  hearts  are  throbbing  sadly 
To  see  these  fashions  greeted  gladly, 
Within  whose  many-tinted  murk 
The  busy  fiends  are  all  at  work. 

In  Weston  lived  a  man,  whose  name 
Was  snugly  shelter' d  in  the  fame 
Of  forward  zeal,  to  make  religion 


RAYMOND   HILL.  31 

Respectable  through  all  the  region  ; 

And  yet,  his  ever-yearning  greed 

Could  filch  the  blood  of  pallid  need, 

And  wring  the  sickest  heart  for  spoil, 

His  tongue,  the  while,  as  smooth  as  oil. 

His  golden  greatness  was  respected ; 

His  dire  rapacity  protected, 

By  many  a  cunning  art  to  draw 

An  endless  sanction  from  the  law. 

With  guile,  no  conscience  rose  to  smother, 

This  man  had  injur'd  Raymond's  mother. 

In  form  of  law,  he  made  the  deed 

Of  cruel  robbery  succeed, 

While  yet,  the  first  hot  hours  of  mourning 

Around  the  widow's  heart  were  burning. ' 

The  boy  had  often  heard  the  tale, 
From  lips  whose  language  could  not  fail 
To  wake  and  nurse  a  swift  pulsation, 
Alive  with  keenest  indignation. 


32 


At  length,  as  Jacob  shap'd  his  thought, 
With  darker  glow,  this  feeling  wrought, 
Until  the  smooth  oppressor's  name 
Would  stir  his  blood's  intensest  flame. 
His  poison' d  feelings,  swift  and  strong, 
Flow'd  in  around  the  sense  of  wrong, 
And,  settling  there,  a  purpose  lent, 
That  every  thought  and  feeling  bent 
To  schemes,  whose  violent  execution 
Would  force  an  ample  restitution. 
In  phrase  of  Jacob  learn'd,  he  swore, 
The  saintly  villain  should  restore 
The  gains  of  greed  so  merciless, 
And  make  his  mother  full  redress. 

Many  a  fiery  word  he  mutter' d ; 
Many  a  wild  menace  he  utter' d ; 
He  said,  it  were  a  deed  to  bless, 
To  punish  pirate-wantonness ; 
And  glowed  the  oft-repeated  threat, 


RAYMOND   HILL. 

That  he  would  scourge  the  robber  yet. 

As  once  they  met,  a  word  or  look 

His  morbid  spirit  would  not  brook, 

Was  answer' d  with  a  curse  and  blow, 

And  hatred's  fiery  overflow. 

And  now,  his  eyes  and  features  play, 

Alive  with  glaring  fury's  sway ; 

The  passions  sweltering  in  his  soul, 

Burst  lava-like  from  all  control. 

To  hot  rebuke  he  gives  reply, 

Convuls'd  to  passion's  hoarsest  cry, 

And  swiftly  deals  the  frantic  blows, 

And  fiercely  struggles,  when  they  close 

In  furious  fray,  but  falls,  at  length, 

As  fails  his  wild  unequal  strength. 

Rage  boils  his  brain ;  —  "the  painted  knave ! 

The  sanctimonious  devil's  slave  ! 

The  steaming  stench  of  rotten  life  !  " 

He  screams,  and  swiftly  draws  a  knife, 

Which,  Jacob  said,  with  hot  delight, 


34  RAYMOND   HILL. 

r 

Had  gleam'd  in  many  a  fatal  fight. 
His  quivering  hand  is  phrenzy  driven ; 
He  strikes  —  a  ghastly  gash  is  given. 

Oh  mystery  !  then  in  Raymond's  soul, 
Come  heavenly  things  to  win  control ! 
Rage  goes,  as  goes  a  sudden  storm, 
To  which  succeed  the  gushes  warm 
Of  mildening  winds,  that  gather  there 
To  soothe  and  clear  the  troubled  air, 
And  flow,  the  blackened  sky-arch  under, 
To  charm  away  the  breath  of  thunder. 
A  shivering  throb,  a  shuddering  start, 
Stirs  deeply  through  his  slumbering  heart. 
Oh,  that  it  were  a  dreadful  dream ! 
He  feels  his  fingers  redly  stream ;  — 
With  hurrying  look  surveys  the  wound ;  — 
And  then,  from  faces  gathering  round 
A  fearful  blaze  of  human  eyes, 
Away,  as  fiend-pursu'd,  he  flies, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  35 

Appall' d,  in  every  pulse  to  feel 
Self-horror's  first  experience  steal. 

The  bleeding  man,  to  people  nigh, 

Who  swiftly  question,  makes  reply :  — 

"  I  was  not  any  way  in  fault  ; 

The  creature  made  a  foul  assault ; 

He  us'd  a  knife,  and  had  the  will, 

I  think,  to  rob  as  well  as  kill. 

You  know  the  fellow's  recent  mood; 

But,  hasten,  let  him  be  pursued ; 

The  wound  is  large,  but  not  severe ; 

There  need  not  many  tarry  here." 

In  furious  mood  the  crowd  recruit, 

And  madly  urge  the  hot  pursuit. 

Vindictive  rage  alone  has  sway, 

And  Raymond,  seiz'd  and  dragg'd  away, 

Is  left  in  misery's  tearless  spell, 

Within  a  felon's  bolted  cell, 

And  feels  the  stir  of  horrors,  creeping 


36  RAYMOND   HILL. 

Where  bolts  the  iron  ward  are  keeping. 

Ah !  then  no  thrill  compassionate 

Melts  through  the  glaring  eye  of  Hate, 

That  comes  the  criminal  to  scan, 

As  if  a  monster,  not  a  man ; 

And  he  is  painted  black  with  evil, 

As  early  leagued  to  serve  the  devil ; 

And  Jacob's  scholar,  all  agree, 

Belongs  to  crime  and  infamy ; 

While  Raymond,  shuddering  in  his  cell, 

With  feelings  language  cannot  tell, 

And  fast  emotions,  that  forsake 

And  loathe  his  tempter,  longs  to  wake 

And  shed  the  dream,  again  to  be 

All  bright  with  childhood's  purity. 

If  now  a  god-like  faith  in  man 

Spoke  out  from  eyes  and  hearts  around  him  ; 

Ah  !  would  they  spurn  the  cruel  ban, 

With  which  unpitying  scorn  has  bound  him ; 


RAYMOND   HILL.  37 

If  stern-faced  law  would  deign  to  borrow 
The  blessed  tones  and  tears  of  sorrow, 
His  swelling  heart  would  quickly  melt 
With  every  pure  and  good  emotion, 
And  holy  thoughts,  before  unfelt, 
Would  have  henceforth  his  life's  devotion. 
But  every  tongue  rings  out  the  strain,  — 
"  The  bloody  fiend  must  wear  a  chain ! " 
Some  shake  their  heads  and  whisper,  sighing, 
"  How  good  and  great  he  might  have  been ! " 
But  feel  no  stir  of  faith  replying,  — 
"  Go,  love  and  save  his  soul  from  sin !" 

While  curious  horror's  thirst  they  slake, 
None  dream  his  better  heart  can  wake. 
They  peer  in  silence,  all  intent 
To  work  a  murderer's  punishment ; 
Or  speak  with  such  self-righteous  tone, 
As  mercy's  angels  never  own. 
And,  staring  round  his  deed  of  ill, 


38  RAYMOND   HILL. 

\ 

Those  kinder  eyes  are  dark  and  chill, 
That,  else,  all  warm  and  dewy  bright 
With  gushing  love,  would  send  their  light. 
Like  genial  sun-gleams,  through  the  gloom. 
That  girds  him  in  his  ironed  room. 
His  mother's  voice  is  low  and  broken, 
While  others  look  with  chilling  eye; 
Her  love,  with  sobs  of  anguish  spoken, 
He  feels,  and  groaning,  longs  to  die. 

With  frown  terrific  speaks  the  law, 
And  love  is  sternly  hush'd  in  awe : — 
"  The  desperate  fiend  to  check  and  tame, 
We  brand  '  State-Prison '  on  his  name ;  " 
But  oh !  'twas  not  a  fiend,  whose  tears 
Of  shame  and  sorrow,  through  the  years 
Of  punishment,  so  wildly  fell, 
Unnotic'd  in  his  lonely  cell ;  — 
Unnotic'd,  save  of  Him,  whose  eye 
Beholds  all  secret  misery. 


RAYMOND    HILL.  O1 

His  days  of  punishment  are  ended  :  — 

And  who  can  tell,  with  what  despair 

He  feels,  around  him  is  extended 

A  scorn,  that  darkens  earth  and  air, 

As  forth  he  comes,  with  footstep  fearful, 

Once  more  to  tread  the  ways  of  men ; 

The  very  sunlight  is  not  cheerful ; 

He  scarcely  knows  the  world  again. 

Men  shrink  away,  or  whispering  meet  him, 

Or  gaze  with  eyes  of  holy  wrath ; 

Or  loud  with  stinging  mockery  greet  him, 

And  hiss  contempt  along  his  path. 

Away  from  scowling  human  faces, 

He  turns,  with  madness  in  his  mood, 

To  seek  a  forest's  lonest  places, 

And  find  a  lighter  solitude. 

He  gains  the  shelter ;  there  reclin'd, 
He  sits  with  undirected  mind. 
Ah !  how  escape  the  cruel  ban, 


40  RAYMOND   HILL. 


And  still,  in  any  haunt  of  man,  •!.  i 

Encounter  loving  eyes  and  hearts, 
And  fellowship  that  love  imparts  ! 
Again  in  Weston,  once  so  dear, 
Can  he,  the  branded  wretch  appear  ? 
Alas !  the  world  of  golden  light, 
In  which  his  former  days  were  bright, — 
The  sky,  that  shone  with  radiant  gleams 
Of  early  hopes  and  early  dreams, 
Their  glad  array  no  longer  wear ; 
For  him,  'tis  starless  midnight  there. 
No,  no,  away  beyond  the  sea, 
To  far  off  regions,  must  he  flee ; 
A  strange  and  distant  race  among, 
Must  dwell,  and  learn  another  tongue. 
Or  why  not,  outcast  as  he  is, 
Make  reckless  crime  and  riot  his ; 
Seek  out  a  crew  of  buccaneers, 
Whose  fortune  desperate  daring  steers, 
With  them  at  home,  a  vengeance  study, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  41 

Accept  the  war  and  make  it  bloody, 
Glare  back  on  men  a  scorn  as  great, 
And  fearless  give  them  hate  for  hate  ! 

His  blood  awakes,  and  through  his  soul, 
A  fiery  flood  begins  to  roll ; 
Along  his  brow,  the  stir  and  flush 
Of  fierce  emotions,  wake  and  rush ; 
Swift  fires  dilate  his  drooping  eyes  ; 
"Yes  !  hate  for  hate  !  "  he  fiercely  cries, 
And,  madly  rushing  onward,  speeds, 
As  if  to  write  the  vow  in  deeds. 
But  soon  a  softer  mood  ensues, 
And  better  yearnings  fast  diffuse 
Their  soothing  sway,  as  gently  come 
The  changeless  memories  of  home  ; 
And,  turn'd  by  this  increasing  spell, 
Whose  power  his  heart  cannot  repel, 
His  steps  no  longer  aimless  stray, 
But  on,  to  Weston,  take  their  way. 

9 


RAYMOND   HILL. 

The  vale  is  reach' d :  —  and  now,  he  sees 
His  mother's  roof,  among  the  trees, 
Beyond  the  spire,  that  rises  bright 
And  glimmering  with  the  sunset  light ; 
His  soul  to  passion's  war  delivering, 
With  pain  in  every  fibre  quivering, 
Looks  home  awhile,  so  dark  his  eye, 
That  all  is  dark  beneath  the  sky ; 
And  then,  beneath  the  bower  of  vines, 
In  lonely  misery  reclines. 

But  ah !  one  teeming  thought  is  his, 
That  works  with  clustering  memories, 
To  stir  and  soothe,  and  yet  oppress 
With  overwhelming  tenderness. 
He  feels  delicious,  starry  light, 
All  o'er  his  spirit's  cheerless  night,    . 
All  o'er  the  gloom  around  hjm,  trace 
His  suffering  mother's  pleading  face. 
By  this  prevailing  force  within, 


EAYMOND   HILL.  43 

At  length,  the  sweeter  passions  win. 

The  days  come  back,  when,  like  a  spring 
Whose  brimming  waters  sweetly  sing, 
With  crystal  life,  as  on  they  run, 
Glittering,  gleaming  with  the  sun, 
Her  brimming  love,  too  bright  with  gladness 
To  keep  one  hour  a  shade  of  sadness, 
Was  gushing  o'er  his  boyhood's  life, 
That  grew  with  fairest  promise  rife ; 
The  days,  when  radiant  with  the  joy 
That  grew  with  him,  her  darling  boy, 
His  mother's  heart  went  clear  and  strong 
In  music,  like  an  angel's  song, 
From  earliest  morn  to  latest  even, 
And  made  her  humble  home  a  heaven  ; 
Those  blessed  days,  alas !  that  never 
On  them  may  shine  again  forever ; 
Her  paradise  whose  glory  vanished, 
When  he  to  infamy  was  banished, 


44  RAYMOND   HILL. 

In  whose  dark  ruins,  sad,  and  broken 
With  grief  that  cannot  all  be  spoken, 
Her  steeping  eyes  with  anguish  dim, 
She  kneels  alone  and  prays  for  him. 

Not  always  does  the  soul  betoken, 
By  quivering  lip  and  brimming  eye, 
True  chords  that  tremble  yet  unbroken, 
Or  holy  founts  that  are  not  dry. 
With  every  holy  chord  unstrung, 
With  the  blackening  blight  of  crimeful  years, 
The  heart,  by  desperate  madness  wrung, 
May  shed  its  oozing  grime  for  tears. 
Hot  streams  from  demon  eyes  that  ache, 
Fast  down  the  livid  cheeks  may  roll, 
When  baffled  passions,  raging,  break 
In  lurid  tempest,  through  the  soul. 

Not  thus  is  Raymond's  tearful  glow, 
As  now  the  quick  emotions  flow 


BAYMOND   HILL.  45 

Within,  like  sweetest  winds  that  bring 
The  earth-renewing  life  of  spring. 
He  feels  the  disenchanting  call 
To  strength  and  clearness,  break  his  thrall ; 
His  fancies  warm  and  warmer  come, 
Like  angels  from  their  love-bright  home, 
And  stir  the  blessed  founts  of  feeling 
Whose  waters  down  his  face  are  stealing ; 
Despair  gives  way ;  a  holier  aim, 
Than  wild  and  lonely  flight  from  shame, 
Begins  his  brightening  soul  to  employ, 
And  wakes  a  beaming  thrill  of  joy; 
New,  gladdening  fancies  round  him  crowd ; 
Smiles  dawn ;  and  thus  he  thinks  aloud  :  — 

"  Dear  mother,  yes !   I  still  can  be 
Light,  life,  and  gladness  —  all,  to  thee! 
Though  shame  my  life  has  darkly  cross' d, 
Thy  love  remains ;  I  am  not  lost 
Thy  face,  so  dark  and  wet  with  pain, 


46  RAYMOND  HILL. 

The  smile  of  joy  shall  light  again. 
Par  in  the  west,  I  '11  seek  a  home, 
And  make  old  pleasures  round  it  come ; 
And  there,  with  wiser  heart,  for  thee 
I  '11  toil ;  and  there,  for  thee  and  me, 
Shall  life  be  beautiful  once  more, 
Aye,  truer,  better  than  before. 
One  night  beneath  thy  roof  I  '11  sleep ; 
I'll  go  and  bid  thee  cease  to  weep, 
Feel  thy  love  in  thy  embrace, 
See,  all  o'er  thy  grief-worn  face, 
Coming  smiles  begin  to  play, 
Take  thy  blessing,  —  and  away ! 


RAYMOND   HILL. 


PART   THIRD. 


IT  was  a  tranquil  summer  eve, 
Whose  smile  forbade  the  sad  to  grieve ; 
The  bustling  winds  were  all  at  rest ; 
The  glow  of  day  had  left  the  west ; 
The  bushes  grey  and  grasses  green 
All  swam  in  whitest  evening  sheen ; 
The  trees,  with  outline  grand  and  fair, 
Stood  listening  in  the  living  air, 
To  hear  the  wandering  spirits'  hymn 
Flow  through  the  silence,  far  and  dim. 


48  RAYMOND   HILL. 

It  seem'd,  the  skies,  for  perfect  bliss, 
Were  gently  bending  down  to  kiss 
The  dreaming  brow  of  glorious  June ; 
A  magic  from  the  stars  was  stealing, 
To  charm  the  fancy,  like  a  tune 
Or  talej  that  wakes  a  bright  forefeeling 
Of  ecstasy,  beneath  the  skies 
That  charm  the  vales  of  Paradise. 

The  Cuyahoga's  waters  bright 
Were  whispering  music  to  the  night, 
That  told  their  yearning  dream  of  rest, 
In  Erie's  great  maternal  breast. 
And  there,  along  the  forest  valley, 
His  fancies  moving  musically, 
Went  Raymond,  glad  as  any  gleam 
That  danc'd  on  blossom,  leaf,  or  stream. 

Before  the  day  began  to  fail, 

He  went  to  meet  the  lagging  mail, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  49 

And,  singing,  dreaming  through  the  vale, 
With  radiant  heart  he  now  returns ; 
In  every  pulse,  serenely  burns 
A  joy,  that  nothing  comes  to  smother,  — 
The  joy  of  tidings  from  his  mother. 
His  glad  demeanor  seems  to  say, 
"Ah  !  better  things  on  earth  have  sway, 
Than  gloaring  hate  and  killing  scorn ! 
We  need  not  walk  the  earth  forlorn. 
The  ways  of  human  life  are  bright 
With  loving  hearts,  whose  gentle  light 
Can  chase  away  the  blackest  sadness, 
And  fill  the  darkest  heart  with  gladness} 
As  now  the  starry  spell  beguiles 
And  makes  the  world  alive  with  smiles. 
I  '11  toil  and  wait  another  year ; 
And,  mother,  then  shalt  thou  be  here  ! 
Our  home  will  be  a  place  of  joy, 
That  sin  shall  not  again  destroy ; 
And  oh  !  if  Jane  will  see  me  then, 


50  RAYMOND   HILL. 

With  smiles,  and  soft  consenting  eyes, 
Nor  let  me  urge  my  suit  in  vain, 
'Twill  seem  a  bower  of  Paradise." 

With  shining  hope  communing  now, 
He  feels  her  radiance  round  his  hrow ; 
And  light  whose  quickening  beams  impart 
A  heavenly  verdure,  fills  his  heart. 
By  timid  trust  in  strangers  drawn, 
He  came,  two  years  and  more  agone, 
To  hide  from  howling  infamy, 
To  seek  for  human  sympathy, 
To  find  a  home  and  earn  esteem 
Where  Cuyahoga's  waters  gleam, 
Below  the  forest-cover 'd  hill, 
Whose  circle  shelters  Allanville. 

Our  God-related  human  heart, 
Whose  beat  the  demons  seek  to  fetter, 
Though  oft  it  plays  a  mournful  part, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  51 

Forever  yearns  for  something  better. 
Its  league  with  holy  things  may  seem, 
By  crimes  and  lies  entirely  broken ; 
Or,  like  a  dim  remember'd  dream 
Of  pretty  words  in  childhood  spoken, 
May  come,  with  songs  of  golden  ages, 
And  sing  to  fancy,  weirdly  toned, 
May  gild  our  talk  of  holy  sages, 
And  seem  in  every  deed  disowned. 


Meanwhile,  the  bandages  of  lies 

Cannot  entirely  still  its  beating ; 

And,  sometimes,  scar'd  to  see  it  rise 

The  demons  round  it  fly  retreating. 

And,  though  a  holy  wall  around  it, 

Would  fence  it  out  from  earth  and  sky ; 

Though  bigots  in  their  fens  have  drown'd  it, 

Its  godlike  craving  will  not  die. 

How  oft  divine  emotion  graces 

This  poor  old  heart,  when  grief  is  seen, 


52  RAYMOND   HILL. 

Till  Pharisees,  with  gloaring  faces 
And  great  philacteries,  get  between ! 

!      * 

Oh  !  scorn  is  mighty ;  when  its  flame 
Has  burn'd  and  blackened  through  a  name, 
How  oft  the  heart  of  manhood  dies, 
In  him  who  suffers ;  through  the  eyes, 
Where  looked  a  soul  whose  kingly  might 
Of  self-respect  enforced  its  right, 
There  looks  an  abject  creature,  peering, 
Beseeching,  hating,  crouching,  fearing; 
"  My  royal  birthright,"  this  its  whine, 
"Is  canceled,  if  'twere  ever  mine." 

Oh,  scorn  is  mighty  !     Pharisee, 
Thy  devil-triumph  oft  we  see ; 
And  yet,  thy  brethren's  trampled  souls, 
O'er  which  thy  carriage  proudly  rolls, 
On  holy  journeys  through  the  town, 
To  show  the  world  thy  saintly  crown, 


RAYMOND    HILL.  53 

Though  crouch'd  in  ashes,  smear'd  with  sin, 
And  black  as  blind  despair  within, 
Compar'd  with  thine,  are  clean  and  white,  -  - 
Aye,  lustrous  with  a  radiant  light. 

If  Raymond's  shrinking  spirit  quailed, 
When  scorn  with  furious  bolts  assailed, 
'T  was  not  that  goodness,  justly  proud, 
His  soul  beneath  a  thunderous  cloud 
Of  scorn,  had  plac'd,  to  curse  his  sin, 
Till  all  his  manhood  died  within ; 
T  was  not  that  conscience  bade  him  take 
An  outcast's  robe,  for  human  sake ; 
For,  gilded  sin,  whose  bosom  wears 
Our  smiling  favors,  ever  dares 
To  talk  of  honor,  ride  at  ease, 
Assume  the  proudest  robe  it  sees, 
Proclaim  the  grandest  soul  its  mate, 
And  sit  with  lords  of  church  and  state. 
No,  Raymond's  suffering  contrite  spirit 


54  RAYMOND  HILL. 

Requir'd  a  loving  voice  to  cheer  it, 
Like  His,  whose  love-transfigured  tone, 
Through  sinful  bosoms  sweetly  shone, 
And,  where  its  sternest  utterance  went, 
A  lingering,  clinging  music  lent, 
That  gave  rebuke  a  power  to  win,  — 
A  charm  to  change  the  mood  of  sin. 

r  .V  .      r:.t 

To  Allanville  he  came  alone, 

A  youthful  stranger,  quite  unknown, 

Whose  humble  aspect,  earnest  eye, 

And  voice  that  won  they  knew  not  why, 

To  every  heart,  unhinder'd,  plead, 

Till  kindly  welcome  round  him  spread. 

Meanwhile,  he  thinks,  with  timorous  mind, 

All  hearts  are  far  too  greatly  kind. 

He  pines  for  love ;  but,  if  they  knew  him, 

Their  scowls  and  curses  would  pursue  him. 

And  shall  he  thus,  in  silence,  take 

The  love  whose  warm  embraces  wake, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  55 


Within  his  breast,  a  hope  so  thrilling, 

Its  mournful  deeps  with  music  filling : 

And  aim,  this  cheering  love  to  merit, 

To  live  forever  with  the  spirit, 

That  wins  to  every  smallest  duty, 

The  heavenly  grace  of  Truth  and  Beauty? 

And  thus,  by  years  of  merit,  build 

A  name,  like  honor's  palace,  filled 

With  sumptuous  light,  that,  purely  glowing, 

Like  sweetest  rhyme  is  ever  flowing. 

Alas !  how  soon  a  fatal  word, 
That  hunts  him  always,  demon-stirr'd. 
May  scent  his  steps  and  hurry  here, 
To  shake  his  rising  hope  with  fear, 
Cave  in  the  hollow  earth  below  it, 
And,  deep  in  darkness,  overthrow  it ! 

How  many  a  time,  the  flashing  pain 
Of  these  misgivings,  through  his  brain 


56  RAYMOND   HILL. 

And  heart,  their  sudden  lightning  shed, 
To  strike  his  trembling  purpose  dead ! 
Ah,  ye,  whose  souls,  with  inward  power, 
Go  shining  on,  though  darkness  lour, 
And  move,  the  ways  of  truth  along, 
In  heavenly  self-reliance  strong ; 
Who,  heart-entranc'd,  for  goodness'  sake, 
The  loneliest  ways  of  conscience  take  ; 
Ye  will  not  angrily  despise 
His  weaker  spirit ;  no,  your  eyes 
Become  alive  with  Christian  meekness, 
To  see  a  trembling  brother's  weakness. 

'T  is  thus  arrang'd ;  — an  aged  pair, 
With  faces  mild  as  summer  weather, 
Have  room  and  little  weight  of  care, 
So  he  and  they  will  dwell  together. 
And  now  he  glows  with  happy  mood, 
To  feel  again  the  little  pleasures, 
So  sweet,  of  home  and  neighborhood ; 


RAYMOND   HILL.  57 

And,  having  duly  taken  measures 
To  own  a  little  tract  of  land, 
That  lies  not  far  above  the  village, 
Begins,  with  strenuous  heart  and  hand, 
To  clear  and  fit  the  soil  for  tillage. 
Meanwhile,  to  make  his  purpose  thrive, 
He  toils  among  his  busy  neighbors, 
With  axe  or  plow,  no  arm  alive, 
With  more  unwearying  gladness  labors. 
The  life  within  his  bosom  clears, 
By  joy's  inspiring  music  aided, 
Whose  deepening  tones  dispel  the  fears, 
By  which  his  downcast  soul  was  shaded. 
The  welcome  warms  ;  fancies  cease 
To  see  his  human  claims  so  meanly  ; 
He  feels  a  gathering  glow  of  peace, 
And  days  begin  to  flow  serenely. 

Oh  !  men,  my  brothers,  't  is  not  well, 
To  be  so  much  in  league  with  hell ;  — 


RAYMOND   HILL. 

It  is  not  good,  when  human  eyes 
Give  out  no  light  of  Paradise, 
To  charm  away  the  darkness,  where 
The  death  of  hope  has  gloom' d  the  air. 
How  good  is  kindness,  when  its  breath 
Awakes  a  shrouded  hope  from  death, 
To  smile  and  sing,  without  a  fear, 
Within  a  love-bright  atmosphere ! 

When  thus  withdrew  the  cloud  of  pain, 

His  heart  in  brightness  mov'd  again, 

With  all  its  former  fervor  glowing, 

With  youthful  gladness  overflowing ; 

Though  earnest  now,  with  graver  thought 

Than  former  sunny  hours  had  brought, 

A  shining  air  his  spirit  lent, 

To  charm  all  places  where  he  went  ; 

At  toil  or  pastime,  none  could  be 

So  full  of  beaming  life  as  he ; 

And  none  more  wakeful,  stern,  and  strong, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  59 

To  shun  the  tempting  ways  of  wrong ; 
None  shrunk  with  keener  dread  of  blame 
From  every  thought  that  led  to  shame, 
Or  tried  so  many  graceful  ways, 
To  win  and  keep  the  crown  of  praise. 

And  praise  he  won  ;  its  music  came 

From  every  tongue  that  spoke  his  name ; 

Its  flowers  around  him  sprung  and  grew, 

With  dyes  of  every  fairest  hue ; 

For,  human  life,  in  Allanville, 

Unlearn'd  in  rank,  was  simple  still. 

No  gilded  pride  had  won  dominion, 

And  they  were  prais'd,  who  charm' d  opinion, 

By  greatly  honoring  all  its  law, 

With  decorous  mien  and  sleepless  awe. 

At  every  hearth  a  welcome  guest,  — 

By  every  neighboring  eye  caress' d,  — 

His  gleaming  mirth,  and  gentle  face, 

And  mien  so  full  of  modest  grace, 


60  RAYMOND   HILL. 

Became  to  many  a  bosom  dear, 

And  part  of  many  a  homestead  cheer. 

Sometimes,  his  secret  would  intrude 
On  joyous  hours,  so  drear  a  mood, 
That  shuddering  peace  forsook  her  throne ; 
And  many  a  time,  the  startled  tone 
That  gave  his  dread  of  wrong  expression, 
Showed  not  serenest  self-possession ; 
But,  like  the  sound  of  coming  feet, 
That  gaily  move  to  music  sweet 
Of  lutes  and  viols,  through  a  grove, 
Where  birds  enraptur'd  sing  of  love, 
Within  his  bosom  worked  the  dream, 
That  made  the  approaching  future  seem 
A  world  of  rising  suns,  a  heaven, 
From  whose  enchanting  bowers  are  given 
All  joys  and  lovely  things,  that  come 
To  bless  a  happy  mortal's  home. 
The  shadows  ceased  and  went  away, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  61 

Before  the  growing  power  of  day  ; 
And  all  the  dreams  his  spirit  knew, 
To  fast-embodying  visions  grew, 
Whose  gleamy  glow  along  the  air, 
Declar'd  them  almost  present  there  ; 
And  all  his  thoughts  and  all  his  fancies 
Were  steeped  in  dear  delicious  trances. 

For  now  appear'd,  within  his  soul, 
A  thought  that  work'd  with  bright  control, 
And  grew  to  passion's  deepest  glow, 
The  dearest,  sweetest  mortals  know ; 
A  thought,  whose  lustrous  flow  of  light 
Made  heaven  and  earth  divinely  bright ; 
A  growing  thought,  that  seem'd  to  be 
A  universe  of  melody ; 
Whose  sweetness,  keen  as  sharpest  pain, 
Trembling  and  sparkling  through  his  brain, 
Through  all  his  being  seem'd  to  melt, 
In  every  smallest  fibre  felt. 


RAYMOND   HILL. 

Oh  love  !  how  many  souls  entomb 
Thy  bounteous  glory,  in  the  gloom 
Of  self;  or,  in  its  greedy  mire, 
Soon  trample  out  thine  altar-fire ! 
Oh  love !  how  many  blush  to  name  thee, 
And,  seeming  wise,  attempt  to  shame  thee, 
Whose  souls  in  thine  embraces  quiver, 
And  know  thee  life  of  life  forever  ! 

• 

Near  Raymond's  home,  a  neighbor  dwelt, 
Whose  only  daughter,  Jane,  he  felt, 
Had  the  sweetest  smiles  and  brightest  eyes, 
That  ever  shone  below  the  skies. 
And  fair  as  rosy  June  was  she ; 
As  fair  as  maidenhood  can  be, 
When  purely  blooming,  clear  and  white, 
In  graceful  nature's  thrilling  light, 
Away  from  fashion's  hothouse  air, 
And  far  from  dainty  folly's  care. 
Her  comely  form  and  modest  face 


RAYMOND   HILL.  63 

Were  rich  in  every  winning  grace, 

And  spoke  of  streams,  and  wild- wood  bowers, 

And  dalliance  with  the  summer  flowers. 

Her  smile,  alive  with  spirit-gleams, 

Would  fill  your  heart  with  azure  dreams 

Of  June  in  Paradise,  and  make 

Your  voice  a  music-murmur  take. 

Her  motion,  free  from  fettering  art, 

Was  born  within  her  radiant  heart ; 

And,  keeping  still  its  changeful  beauty, 

In  gleeful  dance,  or  household  duty, 

It  seem'd  a  visible  melody. 

And  yet,  it  was  not,  could  not  be, 

That  every  grace  to  her  had  flown, 

To  make  her  beautiful  alone : 

With  rarest  charms  of  beauty  laden, 

Is  every  pure,  true-hearted  maiden. 

But  Raymond's  growing  worship  knew 
No  other  maid  so  fair  to  view. 


64  RAYMOND   HILL. 

No  other's  step,  no  other's  touch. 
Could  thrill  his  heart  and  brain  so  much ; 
No  other  eyes  gave  out  such  glances, 
To  wake  delight's  ethereal  dances, 
Or  so  beseem'd  a  vernal  morn, 
When  flowers  in  sweetest  dews  are  born  ; 
No  tones  such  impulse  could  impart, 
To  stir  his  pulses,  trance  his  heart, 
Or  charm  away  the  world's  eclipse, 
As  those  that  glow'd  around  her  lips. 
He  thought,  one  holy  place  on  earth, 
Was  close  beside  her  father's  hearth : 
And  how,  for  him,  her  presence  dear 
Enhalo'd  all  the  atmosphere ! 
In  any  place,  if  she  were  nigh, 
The  hours  as  still  as  stars  went  by, 
And  feelings  moved  as  musically, 
As  dreams  in  some  enchanted  valley. 

And  soon,  with  trembling  hope,  he  felt 


RAYMOND   HILL.  65 

Love's  promise  through  her  glances  melt ; 
A  gush  of  light  would  overbrim 
Her  eye  and  smile,  to  welcome  him. 
And  now  the  cares  of  timid  love, 
Within  his  bosom  sweetly  strove  ; 
Dawn-music  murmur 'd  everywhere ; 
His  spirit  swam  in  purple  air, 
And  gave  embrace  and  greeting  truer, 
To  all  that  came  to  make  it  pure ; 
It  grew  to  forest  ways,  and  flowers, 
To  rosy  clouds,  and  glittering  showers, 
To  every  happy  bird's  refrain, 
To  every  thing  that  spoke  of  Jane. 

'    '*•<    •.:.,-«/•>•  v^ v.;>  » -H^;  •»«*. -?0*»;, V   V,'3H 

Two  years,  that  grew  at  length  so  bright, 
EnthrilPd  with  love's  delicious  light, 
Till  hopes,  as  stars,  before  him  swum, 
He  toil'd  to  shape  his  future  home. 
And  now,  it  seem'd,  a  sure  success 
Was  near,  his  earnest  toil  to  bless. 


66  RAYMOND   HILL. 

How  dear,  to  his  caressing  view, 
His  modest  little  farmstead  grew, 
Emerging,  like  the  brow  of  peace, 
Among  the  glorious  forest  trees  ! 
The  swarming  days  to  come,  with  noises 
Of  bliss  that  sung  with  million  voices, 
A  throng  of  glories,  hovering  round  it, 
In  spells  of  joy  and  beauty  bound  it. 
Ere  summer's  bright  and  dreamy  songs 
Again  awake  the  million  tongues 
Of  forest,  mountain,  stream,  and  plain, 
That  yearly  celebrate  her  reign, 
His  mother's  eyes  will  see  the  place : 
Her  voice  will  lend  completing  grace ; 
And  then,  along  the  forest  vale, 
Some  moonlit  hour,  becoming  bolder, 
His  tongue  will  tell  to  Jane  the  tale 
His  eyes  so  many  times  have  told  her. 


RAYMOND    HILL. 


PART  FOURTH. 


OH  !  land  of  streams,  and  forests  hoary, 
Where  through  the  darkness  still  and  vast, 
Unvoic'd  by  any  song  or  story, 
From  earliest  time,  the  ages  pass'd, 
Thine  awful  solitude,  of  dreams 
To  yearning  Memory  never  spoken, 
No  more  with  dusky  silence  teems ; 
The  spell  that  held  thee  dumb,  is  broken. 
Oh  !  when  the  life,  that,  westward  flowing, 
Moves  on  with  swift,  resistless  sway, 


68  RAYMOND   HILL. 

The  reign  of  silence  overthrowing, 
Has  swept  thy  forests  all  away, 
With  every  savage  tribe  and  herd, 
By  which  their  endless  shade  is  haunted, 
How  weirdly,  then,  will  hearts  be  stirr'd 
By  Memory's  talk  of  thee  enchanted  ! 

• 

And  then,  the  charm  of  fix'd  abode, 
May  win  the  wandering  homes  to  rest, 
That  now,  forever  on  the  road, 
Are  all  exploring  through  the  west ; 
With  every  tale  he  left  behind, 
Pursuing  surely,  every  where, 
The  wretch,  by  sin  or  pain  inclin'd 
To  hide  in  any  corner  there. 

The  autumn  winds  were  gentle  still, 
With  lingering  summer  ;  Allanville, 
By  forest  hemm'd,  within  its  niche, 
Was  smiling  goldenly,  and  rich 


RAYMOND   HILL.  69 

In  sounds  as  sweet  as  perfect  rhyme, 
And  hearts  that  glowed  to  feel  the  prime 
Of  busy  bounteous  harvest  time ; 
When  came  a  stranger,  whose  (untold 
But  rumored)  quantities  of  gold, 
And  high  demeanor,  swiftly  drew 
All  eyes,  as  wonder  round  him  grew. 

He  stayed  and  talked  of  rising  towns ; 

Of  great  success,  that  surely  crowns 

The  fearless  aim  of  him,  who  tries 

The  world  with  boldest  enterprize. 

He  came  to  Allanville,  he  said, 

By  well-consider' d  purpose  led ; 

His  wealth  was  boundless ;  if  he  could 

Employ  it  there  in  doing  good, 

(For  ah !  he  lov'd  religion  well !) 

'T  would  please  him  much  with  them  to  dwell. 

His  wealth  and  enterprize  should  render 

Some  place  a  seat  of  trade  and  splendor. 


70  RAYMOND   HILL. 

Around  their  village,  every  spot 

Might  soon  become  a  city  lot ; 

And,  as  it  grew,  the  golden  spoil 

Would  quite  emancipate  from  toil 

All  those,  whose  happy  fortune  found  them, 

With  such  a  city  rising  round  them,  — 

And  brought  them  wealth,  perhaps  too  much, 

So  charmed  by  his  Aladdin-touch. 

To  plan  the  town  he  will  not  venture  :  — 
But  then,  suppose  we  make  the  center 
A  splendid  park,  completely  planned  ; 
Around  it  must  the  churches  stand, 
A  bordering  row,  and  greet  the  eye 
With  steeples,  very,  very  high ;  — 
Broadway  shall  hound  it  on  the  north, 
And,  like  a  palace,  shining  forth 
To  front  the  fountain,  there  may  swell 
On  high,  the  city's  chief  chief  hotel ;  — 
The  railroad's  double  track  will  go 


RAYMOND   HILL.  71 

I 

Along  the  river  bank  below ; 

The  marble-walled  Exchange  must  be 

Far  from  the  University ; 

The  bank,  the  jail,  the  printing  press 

Will  grace  the  city's  sumptuousness. 

When  rapid  skill  the  plan  completes, 

The  villas,  avenues,  and  streets, 

Will  flourish,  all  the  vale  embracing, 

Its  vulgar  show  of  farms  effacing. 

He'd  stay  awhile  and  look  around ;  — 
Their  modest  village  might  be  found, 
Perhaps,  unworthy  quite,  that  he 
Should  give  it  such  a  destiny. 
The  stores  of  wealth  he  will  prepare, 
Must  none  but  Christian  people  share, 
Who  can  get  rich  with  spirit  lowly, 
And  make  their  grandeur  very  holy. 
He  must,  with  self-denying  aim, 
Preserve  an  honor 'd  Christian  fame. 


72  RAYMOND   HILL. 

His  soul  on  doing  good  is  bent ; 
His  future  city,  Rome  outvying, 
Must  rise  as  Zion's  battlement, 
The  pope,  and  hell  itself,  defying. 

The  stranger's  stay  appeared  the  dawn 
Of  Eldorado  hastening  on ; 
For,  Eldorado-bringing  schemes, 
That  swim  in  wild,  fantastic  dreams, 
Far  shrewder  hearts  bewitch  and  fill, 
Than  ever  beat  in  Allanville. 

The  stranger,  while  he  tarried  there, 

The  impressive  semblance  sought  to  wear, 

Of  one,  whose  mighty  powers  can  make 

Creation  any  fashion  take ; 

And  bade  them  see,  with  awe  extreme, 

A  mighty  soul  with  cities  teem. 

He  met  the  morning's  earliest  beams, 

Among  the  hills,  along  the  streams, 


RAYMOND    HILL.  73 

Or  down  the  vale,  and  twilight  found  him, 
Somewhere,  with  busy  schemes  around  him. 
What  burning  words  he  spoke  of  rest 
In  drowsy  bowers  of  ease,  caressed 
By  velvet-strokes  of  dreamy  fingers, 
Till  sleep  in  every  fibre  lingers ! 
His  body,  restless,  grim,  and  gaunt, 
The  thrills  of  lightning-motion  haunt, 
That  swarm  and  glow,  as  now  he  tries 
To  seem  ablaze  with  enterprise. 

His  face  appeared  to  Raymond's  view, 
Familiar,  like  a  face  he  knew. 
And  when  the  stranger's  glances,  set 
On  him,  at  length,  he  fully  met, 
A  throb  awoke  within  his  heart, 
That  gave  his  blood  a  shivering  start. 
That  face  a  full  assurance  bore, 
That  he  had  seen  the  man  before. 
He  shrunk,  to  feel,  in  every  sense, 

5 


RAYMOND    HILL. 

The  stranger  stare  intelligence, 
And  see,  around  his  working  eyes, 
A  spreading  scowl  of  scorn  arise, 
That  swift  a  thunderous  darkness  took, 
And  blackly  hung  on  every  look. 

To  those  who  stood  observant  near, 
The  stranger  cried,  "This  fellow  here ! 
I  thought  the  creature  went  to  Texas, 
Where  villainy  a  slough  commixes, 
Whose  mire  with  reeking  vermin  stirs, 
A  stench  of  rotten  characters !  " 

"What!  Raymond  Hill !"  at  once  exclaim'd 
Together,  those  who  heard  him  blam'd  ; 
"  You  err !  there  is,  in  Allan ville, 
No  better  man  than  Raymond  Hill." 

Their  guest  replied,  —  "Ye  blindly  foster 
In  Allanville  a  base  impostor ; 


RAYMOND   HILL.  75 

Or,  is  it  felt  as  no  disgrace, 
To  be  a  felon's  hiding-place? 
No  better  man  your  people  know  ! 
I  saw  him,  — not  three  years  ago,  —  - 
And  saw  him,  not  with  honest  men ; 
State-prison  had  the  fellow  then. 
If  doubt  completer  proof  require, 
Your  reverend  pastor  may  inquire." 

As  when,  within  a  shining  valley, 

With  many  a  heart  unfolding  sally 

Of  sparkling  song  and  brimming  glee, 

A  bright  and  various  company, 

Amid  the  purest  summer  weather, 

Are  keeping  holiday  together, 

(A  kind  of  wild  flower  festival, 

Whose  perfumes  sweetly  trance  them  all,) 

Where  winds,  with  murmurs  sweet  and  low, 

And  thrilling  touches,  gently  flow 

Along  the  valley's  breast,  caressing 


76  RAYMOND   HILL. 

The  flowers,  and  all  the  verdure  blessing ; 
If  sudden  cries  of  "serpents"  there, 
"  Crawling  and  hissing"  shock  the  air, 
The  sudden  shivers  swiftly  run 
Through  heart  and  brain  of  every  one, 
Awakening  doubt,  dismay,  and  dread, 
Till  every  gleam  of  joy  is  dead ; 
So  now,  a  wild  and  devilish  thrill 
Went  through  the  life  of  Allanville. 

At  once,  with  zeal  that  made  them  dizzy, 
Were  Rumor's  swiftest  tongue-pads  busy, 
Hither  and  thither  hurrying  fast, 
With  mouths  aglow  and  eyes  aghast ; 
In  strife,  the  freshest  listeners  seeking; 
On  every  tongue  to  utterance  reeking, 
"  Well,  who  would  think  it !  can  it  be  ! 
Was  ever  villain  smooth  as  he  ! " 

The  shifting  passions  fiercely  work, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  77 

Like  whirlwinds  wrestling  through  a  wood  ; 

Although  in  many  a  bosom,  lurk 

Some  throbs  of  human  brotherhood, 

That  faintly  stir,  and  strive  to  bring 

The  feelings,  that  will  closely  cling 

Around  the  friendless  victim,  now, 

And  Hatred's  curses  disavow. 

But  ah  !  quite  through  the  brother-heart. 

The  fatal  throes  of  palsy  dart, 

As  garnish'd  scorn,  with  angry  mien 

And  furious  gesture,  cries  "  Unclean  !  " 

And  busily  works  the  fiendish  thirst 
Of  souls  that  love  to  think  the  worst, 
Whose  feelings  breed  in  carrion-slime, 
And  greedily  feed  on  basest  grime. 
How  sad,  that  stirs  of  quick  delight 
Should  blind  the  heavenly  sense  of  Right, 
In  any  soul,  and  put  the  sway 
Of  loving  kindness,  quite  away, 


78  RAYMOND   HILL. 

When  scandal  blows  her  trumpet  loud, 
Till  answering  furies  round  her  crowd ; 
Or  bids  her  gibbering  demons  dim 
A  shining  name,  or  make  it  swim 
In  slander's  spilth,  or  plunge  it  down, 
In  loathsome  infamy  to  drown. 
How  many  tremble  thro'  and  thro', 
Lest  scandal's  story  prove  untrue  ! 
They  love  to  feed  the  fattening  lie, 
And,  if  it  fail,  their  pleasures  die. 
Oh !  Slander's  crew,  for  victims  raving, 
And  Honor's  sweetest  life-blood  craving, 
Fear  every  tale  their  whispers  try, 
And  every  hint,  will  prove  a  lie. 
When  Truth  her  shield  defiant  hangs, 
Like  shriveling  demons  how  they  pine, 
To  see  a  name  escape  their  fangs, 
And  far  above  their  malice  shine ! 


RAYMOND   HILL.  79 

In  Allanville,  a  character, 
Whose  purity  had  daily  grown 
In  all  that  truthful  aims  confer ; 
A  character,  whose  growing  charm 
Had  kept  the  general  welcome  warm, 
And  gently  round  opinion  twin'd 
Until  'twas  felt  in  every  mind, 
That  none  more  truly  sought  to  be 
En  rich' d  with  social  grace,  than  he. 
But  this  was  nothing ;  Hate  could  mould 
All  feelings,  when  the  stranger  told, 
With  scornful  eye  and  fierce  expression, 
The  mournful  tale  of  one  transgression. 
Yet 't  was  not,  now,  against  the  sin, 
The  angry  flood  of  scorn  rolled  in. 
Oh  no  !  unpitying  law  had  lent 
The  blackest  brand  of  punishment ; 
And,  thirst  for  highest  moral  merit, 
Enjoin'd  them  all,  with  ardent  spirit, 
To  reverence  well  the  holy  mark, 


RAYMOND   HILL. 

And  keep  its  awful  traces  dark. 

His  worth,  which  all  so  clearly  knew, 
In  swathing  shadows,  left  the  view, 
As  darkness  work'd  in  every  eye, 
And  "  Vile  impostor !  "  was  the  cry. 
Some  hearts  with  faint  relentings  yearn' d ; 
Some  rays  of  pity  faintly  burn'd ; 
But  every  sound  of  pity's  tone, 
So  very  chill  and  hoarse  had  grown, 
So  dull,  beneath  the  smothering  dress 
Of  lofty-brow' d  self-righteousness, 
So  edg'd  with  pious  horror's  glare, 
That  gloom' d  and  heated  all  the  air, 
That  pity  made  him  more  forlorn, 
Than  e'en  the  loudest  curse  of  scorn. 

Oh  ye,  whose  goodness  is  serene 

As  moonlight  slumbering  over  snow,  — 

Whose  glistering  graces,  always  seen, 


RAYMOND   HILL.  81 

Along  your  mantle's  surface  glow : 
And  ye,  whose  dark  intensity, 
And  hissing  virtues,  make  us  see 
How  easily  the  curses  start, 
When  pious  hatreds  stir  the  heart ; 
Ye  too  have  human  hearts,  beneath 
The  heavily  swathing  folds  of  death, 
Whose  disentangled,  mighty  beat, 
Aglow  with  spirit-cleansing  heat, 
Would  lighten  thro',  and  disenchant 
The  soul-bewildering  gloom  of  Cant 
Oh  set  them  free  !  and  hear  them  tell, 
What  silent  agony  befel 
Poor  Raymond,  when  the  rising  day, 
Around  his  spirit,  sunk  away. 
The  soul-warm  gush  of  human  feeling, 
Through  brain  and  bosom  softly  stealing, 
Instead  of  Pharisaic  leaven, 
Will  bring  the  sweetest  air  of  heaven. 
Oh !  let  the  Holy  Spirit's  grace 


82  RAYMOND   HILL. 

The  Pharisaic  scowl  efface, 

And  win  your  souls  to  follow  Him, 

Whose  pity-tones  were  never  dim. 

Around  his  finished  cottage,  where 
Bliss-bringing  promise  grew  so  fair, 
And  made  the  future  show  a  vision 
Of  homestead  loves  and  cares  elysian, 
The  evening  hovers,  starry-mild, 
With  love-sweet  hum  of  insect-vespers, 
And  toneless  flow  of  spirit-whispers ; 
But  homeless  there,  and  unbeguiled 
From  crowding  thoughts  of  hope  o'erthrown 
In  darkness,  Raymond  sits  alone. 
His  little  clearing  seems  a  place, 
Where  dreary  shapes  of  madness  pace 
The  ground,  with  endless  sighs  of  sorrow, 
And  seek  a  never-found  to-morrow. 
The  evening  voices  come  around 
His  senses,  with  the  saddest  sound,  — 


RAYMOND   HILL.  83 

In  every  feeling  sharply  stay 
And  die  in  keenest  thrills  away ; 
His  aching  eyes  a  darkness  bring, 
To  shadow  every  beamy  thing ; 
And  all  the  light  is  drunk  with  gloom, 
Like  funeral  vapors  round  a  tomb. 

Oh  God  !  't  is  not  a  dreamy  trance. 

Whose  dreadful  shadows  round  him  dance ! 

For  days,  in  agony,  his  thought 

Against  this  dark  eclipse  has  fought, 

Which  still,  a  heavier  shadow  shows, 

And,  every  moment,  blacker  grows. 

His  homestead  world,  whose  verdure  greened 

And  grew,  by  million  dreams  o'ersheened, 

Lies  there,  by  human  scorn  benighted, 

Its  gushing  bloom  forever  blighted ; 

And,  all  the  sounds,  the  breezes  wake, 

The  sobbing  murmurs  seem  to  take, 

In  which  the  struggling  farewells  languish, 


84  RAYMOND   HILL. 

Whose  tones  betray  a  swooning  anguish. 
"  Farewell !  "  his  feelings  swell  to  say. 
He  cannot  longer  bear  to  stay ; 
For,  hope  will  never  more  appear, 
With  sun-lit  eyes,  to  greet  him  here. 

She  must  be  told ;  he  must  impart 
The  tale  to  break  his  mother's  heart. 
He  has  essayed,  but  has  not  power ; 
He  '11  wait,  and  write  some  other  hour. 
He  would,  but  cannot,  now,  fulfil 
This  duty,  here  in  Allanville. 
He  must  escape  this  burning  glare, 
This  deathly  dark,  so  hard  to  bear. 

He  went,  his  neighbors  knew  not  where ; 
But,  when  his  face  they  saw  no  more, 
Before  his  mournful  cottage  door 
They  paused,  and,  moralizing,  said, 
With  long,  grave  faces,  "  He  has  fled ! 


RAYMOND   HILL.  85 

Ah  well !  behold  the  fruit  of  crime  ! 
Let  every  youth  be  warned,  in  time, 
That  Providence  is  round  about 
The  sinner's  path,  to  find  him  out, 
And  ever  keeping  holy  ward, 
To  show  transgressors'  ways  are  hard." 

Three  years  went  by ;  the  stranger  schemed, 
With  speech  persuasive,  till,  it  seemed, 
Swift  glories  round  them  would  unfold, 
And  turn  their  very  soil  to  gold. 
Then  came  the  issue ;  fiercest  curses 
Proclaimed  their  bankrupt  hopes  and  purses. 
The  stranger  won  the  spoil,  and  went, 
(On  "doing  good"  with  ardor  bent,) 
To  find  some  other  simple  men, 
And  build  his  cities  o'er  again. 

And  where  is  Raymond  ?    Rumors  came, 
That,  farther  west,  he  changed  his  name, 


86  RAYMOND   HILL. 

And  sought  to  find  a  home,  once  more. 

With  toil  as  useless  as  before. 

And  some  whose  thought  with  fancy  mixes 

Believe  he  lives  retired  in  Texas, 

Unrecognized ;  but  others  say, 

He  died  unknown  at  Monterey. 

The  gravestone  tells  us  where  the  grief, 

That  crushed  his  mother,  found  relief. 

With  love- warm  voices,  full  and  sweet, 

And  gladdest  words,  we  might  complete 

His  tale,  and  that  of  many  others, 

If  all  would  learn  that  men  are  brothers, 

And  let  the  power,  of  Jesus  born, 

Expel  the  demon-glare  of  scorn 

From  human  souls  and  human  ways, 

And  make  its  hallowing  radiance  blaze 

Around  our  being,  till  we  knew, 

That  Truth,  if  stern,  is  loving  too. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


RED    JACKET, 

AT  THE  OLD  HUNTING  GROUND. 


THE  beautiful  vale  of  the  Genesee, 

Where  the  deep  old  woods  were  high  and  dim, 
Ere  the  white  men's  axes  spoiled  a  tree, 

Was  memory's  holiest  ground  to  him. 
It  seemed  a  wondrous  realm  of  joy, 
When  he  hunted  there,  with  the  braves,  a  boy. 

On  its  shadowy  paths  he  chased  the  deer, 
When  his  heart  was  young  and  his  fancy  warm, 


90  RED   JACKET. 

And  heard,  in  its  deeps,  with  a  charmed  ear, 

The  trees  sing  awful  songs  to  the  storm. 
His  youth  went  to  school,  in  its  haunted  shade, 
Where  the  voice  of  the  long  gone  ages  strayed. 


With  a  teeming  heart,  he  came  again, 
A  white-haired  chief,  to  chase  the  deer, 

And,  from  each  time-hallowed  tree  and  glen, 
The  tales  of  his  father's  time  to  hear. 

What  tales  of  the  olden  time  abound, 

In  the  whispering  shade  of  the  hunting  ground ! 


He  came ;  and  he  gazed  with  burning  eyes ; 

In  blazing  piles  were  the  sacred  trees ; 
The  white  men  were  there  to  civilize ; 

The  noises  of  builders  rilled  the  breeze ; 
Plows  were  at  work  on  the  treeless  hills ; 
The  wildwood  rivers  were  turning  mills. 


RED   JACKET.  91 

This  fearful  race !  could  he  feel  they  wrought 
That  ground  to  a  field  with  ruins  rife, 

In  the  mastering  power  of  a  higher  thought, 
Than  ever  worked  in  the  red  man's  life? 

He  wept  for  his  archive  trees  and  streams,  — 

For  his  world  so  changed  to  spectral  dreams. 

Oh !  never  again,  by  the  forest  streams, 

When  the  stars  are  tranced  by  the  breath  of 
June, 

When  the  vale  is  still  in  impassioned  dreams, 
And  the  breeze  is  weird  as  a  dreaming  tune, 

Will  he  walk  in  the  sheen  of  enchanted  air, 

And  talk  with  the  souls  of  his  fathers  there. 

On  the  hills  no  more,  while  autumn  weaves 
Her  gorgeous  bowers,  will  he  sit,  and  hear 

The  plaintive  song  of  the  dying  leaves, 
Till  his  soul  goes  forth,  through  eye  and  ear, 


92  RED   JACKET. 

To  the  radiant  Islands,  down  the  west, 
Where  the  buried  braves  are  all  at  rest. 

He  weeps,  for  his  holy  things  have  flown. 

From  afar  on  the  hills,  a  departing  voice, 
Comes  low  to  his  heart,  with  the  saddest  tone, 

Like  a  soul's  that  will  never  more  rejoice,  — 
"  The  hunting  ground  by  the  happy  river, 
Is  gone  to  be  found  no  more  forever !  " 


93 


GOD'S  LIGHT   BRINGER. 


I. 

WHEN  his  mom  of  life  had  risen, 

With  its  bands  of  singing  hours, 
As  amid  the  sheen  he  shouted, 

As  he  roved  among  the  flowers, 
Flowing  dimly  through  his  bosom, 

Then  there  came  as  sweet  a  voice, 
As  ever  told  a  seraph's  longing, 

Or  as  ever  said  "Rejoice." 

• 

II. 

'Twas,  at  first,  so  very  dreamlike, 
'Twas  so  very  sweet  and  dim, 

That  it  seemed  the  wandering  phantom 
Of  a  holy  spirit's  hymn. 


94  GOD'S   LIGHT   BRINGER. 

But  the  ever-haunting  music, 
Soon,  to  clear  expression  grew, 

Till,  through  every  pulse  within  him, 
Its  melodious  touches  flew. 

in. 

Oh !  it  sang  of  Truth  and  Beauty  ! 

And  its  singing  made  him  feel 
Every  evil  thing  dissolving, 

That  could  trouble  human  weal ;  — 
And,  an  earth-embracing  city, 

Built  by  human  brotherhood, 
Seemed  to  rise,  a  glorious  wonder, 

Where  the  thrones  of  darkness  stood. 

• 

IV. 

Oh  !  it  sang  its  music  through  him, 

Like  a  flame  of  holy  fire, 
Till  it  woke  and  lit  within  him, 

All  the  heaven  of  great  desire. 


GOD'S   LIGHT   BRINGER.  95 

How  the  beauty,  like  a  passion, 
Creeping  swiftly  through  his  veins, 

Stirred  his  soul  to  tell  the  vision, 
And  repeat  the  trancing  strains ! 

v. 

Then  the  earthen  voices,  near  him, 

Swift  to  sharpest  utterance  broke ; 
Speaking  low,  or  muttering  fiercely, 

Each  its  maniac  anger  spoke. 
"  Ho !  "  they  cried,  "  behold  a  dreamer !  " 

Fancy-drunk  and  finely  mad ! 
See  !  his  eyes  are  quite  romantic, 

When  he  calls  the  world  so  bad  !  " 

VI. 

Deeply  stirred  by  love  and  pity, 
How  his  yearning  bosom,  then, 

What  the  Holy  Spirit  told  it, 
Strove  to  tell  misdeeming  men  ! 


96  GOD'S   LIGHT    BRINGER. 

How  he  strove  to  make  them  listen, 
Till  the  voice  their  spirits  filled, 

And  their  being  gave  responses, 
Heart  and  senses  beauty-thrilled  ! 

VII. 

But  against  him  rose  an  army, 

From  To-Day's  o'erflowing  marts ; 
There  were  men  with  empty  foreheads ; 

There  were  men  with  empty  hearts  ; 
There  was  every  serf  of  Custom ; 

There  was  every  priest  of  Ease ; 
There  were  all  the  cunning  Lawyers ; 

There  were  all  the  Pharisees. 

VIII. 

They  declared  the  shining  vision, 
Which  his  soul,  enchanted,  saw, 

All  a  shadow-play  of  demons, 
And  a  crime  against  the  Law. 


GOD  S    LIGHT    BRINGER.  \ 

And,  they  said,  an  evil  spirit 

Had  within  his  bosom  crept, 
Else,  he  would  not  make  disturbance, 

When  the  holy  Rabbis  slept. 

IX. 

In  their  laws,  they  said,  was  treasured 

Every  syllable  of  Right, 
And,  within  their  garnished  temples, 

Every  beam  of  holy  Light. 
Then,  they  gathered  round  to  brand  him,  — 

Called  him  infidel  and  liar ; 
Then  their  hatred  thundered  at  him, 

Like  a  roaring  storm  of  fire. 

x. 

Oh  !  he  felt  his  heart  was  human, 

When  the  crown  of  praise  withdrew,  — 

When  the  honored  many  left  him  . 
With  the  much  dishonored  few ; 


98  GOD'S   LIGHT   BRINGER. 

But,  't  was  only  for  a  moment, 
That  a  starting  throb  of  pain 

Quivered  through,  along  his  forehead ; 
All  was  quickly  bright  again. 

XL 

With  the  sacred  Voice  communing, 

Now  he  learned  its  deepest  song, 
And  assailed,  with  heart  heroic, 

Every  consecrated  wrong  :  — 
And,  the  age  that  followed  after, 

Called  him  beautiful  and  brave ; 
How  it  loved  and  did  him  honor, 

Shone  in  marble  on  his  grave. 


99 


THOUGHTS  AT   A  BRIDAL. 


FAIR  Bride,  the  light,  that  through  thine  eyes 

We  feel  to-night  out-shining, 
Has  not  a  dream  of  clouded  skies,  — 

Shows  not  a  bramble  twining 

...       . 
Among  the  wreaths  of  smiling  flowers, 

That  hang  so  thickly  round  thy  bowers. 

And  he,  whose  eyes  so  fondly  meet 

v 

Thy  lustrous  love-look,  holds  thee 

The  soul  and  crown  of  bliss  complete, 

As  thus  his  heart  enfolds  thee. 
May  this  embrace,  unwearied  never, 
Unite  and  thrill  you  both  forever. 


100  THOUGHTS   AT    A   BRIDAL. 

A  fairy  singing  bird,  a  dawn 

As  fair  as  angels  see, 
A  light  from  lustrous  Beauty  drawn, 

Thou  art  to  him,  and  he 
To  thee,  a  bright,  infolding  heaven, 
From  which  all  evil  things  are  driven. 

But  ye  are  human ;  would  ye  be 

Conformed  to  love's  ideal, 
And  in  experience  daily  see 

Its  holy  dream  made  real  ? 
When  aught  to  chill  or  part  you  tries, 
Look  deeply  down  each  other's  eyes. 

The  years,  whose  coming  footsteps,  now, 
Your  bridal  rapture  drowns, 

Will  try  the  love,  whose  shadeless  brow 
This  bridal  radiance  crowns ; 

And  floods  of  earthly  dark  will  pour, 

To  quench  your  hearts  forevermore. 


THOUGHTS    AT   A    BRIDAL.  101 

Love  on,  through  all  the  sternest  years ; 

Preserve,  in  changeless  beauty, 
Each  look  and  tone  that  now  endears ; 

And,  finding  bliss  in  duty, 
Meet  any  touch  of  blight  or  shade, 
With  hearts  whose  brightness  will  not  fade. 

Love  on,  but  not  with  heart  or  mind 

In  selfish  trances  dumb ; 
Be  true  to  God  and  human  kind, 

And  make  your  love  a  home, 
Whence  deeds,  like  angels,  to  and  fro 
On  mercy's  holy  errands  go. 

Love  on,  all  earthly  mark  above, 

The  fulness  comprehending 
Of  that  transfiguring  life  of  love, 

With  which,  are  ever  blending 
All  feelings  beautiful  and  good, 
That  glow  within  the  realm  of  God. 


102  THOUGHTS   AT   A    BRIDAL 

Love  on,  in  every  sweetest  way 

The  spirit-wed  may  know, 
With  hearts  that  wear  eternal  May, 

With  ever-deepening  glow ; 
And,  one  forever,  pass  the  portals, 
Where  death  reveals  the  bright  Immortals. 

Our  hearts,  more  clearly,  deeply  bright, 
Shine  out  with  hues  Elysian, 

The  bridal  altar  glows,  to-night, 
So  like  a  heavenly  vision. 

The  soberest  pulse  of  wedded  bliss, 

Runs  almost  wild,  at  scenes  like  this. 


103 


AN  HOUR  OF   SADNESS. 


I. 

THE  winds  against  my  windows  sweeping, 

Like  dreary  spirits  moan, 
(Their  tones  along  my  blood  are  creeping, 
My  very  soul  in  sadness  steeping,) 

"  Alone !  alone  !  " 

II. 

Another  weary  year  is  dying 

Amid  the  wintry  gloom, 
And  all  the  pallid  hours  are  sighing, 
And  all  the  stormy  air  replying, 

"  Behold  his  tomb !  " 


104  AN    HOUR    OF    SADNESS. 

III. 

His  tomb !  how  many  withered  roses 

Of  hope,  are  gathered  there  ! 
There,  many  a  form  of  joy  reposes,  — 
There,  many  a  dream  the  dark  encloses, 
That  tranced  the  air. 

IV. 

Oh,  hopes,  whose  bloom,  so  late,  was  filling 

The  world  with  light ! 
Oh,  joys,  whose  trances  were  so  thrilling  ! 
Your  frozen  brows,  so  pale  and  chilling, 

My  soul  affright. 

v. 

Your  drear  dead  eyes,  no  longer  wearing 

The  dream  of  endless  May, 
From  out  the  ghastly  dark  are  glaring, 
And,  through  my  very  soul  declaring, 
"All  things  decay!  " 


AN   HOUR    OF    SADNESS.  105 

VI. 

How,  year  by  year,  becometh  weary 

Each  shining  way  we  go  ! 
Hard  circumstance  makes  life  uncheery, 
So  heavily  comes  her  shadow  dreary 

On  all  we  know. 

VII. 

My  soul,  for  Light  Undying,  pineth, 

Its  clouded  sphere  to  fill, 
And  evermore  such  light  divineth ; 
For  Love,  amid  the  darkness,  shineth 

In  beauty  still. 

VIII. 

I  sit  beside  the  pallid  corses, 

And  tears  my  vision  drown ; 
And  yet,  from  all  their  radiant  courses, 
The  holy  stars,  with  sweetest  forces, 

Are  shining  down :  — 


106  AN   HOUR    OF    SADNESS. 

IX. 

And  Truth,  the  lutanist,  is  calling 

From  skies  serene  and  clear ; 
Her  tones,  like  seraph  glances,  falling 
Through  cloud  and  murk,  are  quite  enthrallinj 

The  souls  that  hear. 

x. 

How  blind  to  feel  thus  darkly  fated ! 

The  gloom  my  spirit  sees, 
Was  all  within  itself  created ; 
My  soul  in  aims  too  low  has  waited 

For  holy  peace. 

December,  1346. 


107 


THE  DARK  ROOM. 


AT  dead  of  night,  he  reads,  aghast, 
The  book  his  soul  would  spurn, 

While  blackest  memories,  crowding  fast. 
The  crimeful  pages  turn. 

Like  spirits  dire,  in  deathless  fire, 
The  letters  burn. 

His  life  began,  a  dawn  of  glory, 
Whose  faded  trace  of  smiles, 

Appears  a  dream  of  some  old  story 
Of  far-off  blessed  Isles, 

Where  angels  sing,  and  virtues  bring 
The  Houris'  wile?. 


108  THE    DARK   ROOM. 

His  God-beholding  heart  he  sold ; 

He  gave  his  glorious  dower, 
At  Satan's  price,  for  lying  gold, 

And  witching  dreams  of  power. 
Ah,  Beauty's  throne,  he  could  disown, 
And  leave  her  bower ! 

He  let  his  soul  to  Pride  and  Scorn ; 

He  loved  the  tenants  well ; 
And  there  beneath  its  roof,  was  born 

A  brood  of  hell. 
All  passions  evil,  that  please  the  devil, 

The  godless  man  befel. 

With  weary  blood  and  weary  breath, 
He  reads,  and,  through  his  brow, 

Glares  out  the  pallid  smile  of  death. 
It  shudders  through  him  now, 

How  the  hellish  grime  of  lies  and  crime 
A  soul  endow. 


THE   DARK   ROOM.  109 

Oh  drearily  there,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  gathering  spirits  throng :  — 

From  out  the  yawning  future,  dight 
With  horrors  black  and  strong, 

And  gathering  fast  from  out  the  past, 
They  float  along. 

He  feels  the  silent  air  is  stirred, 

Within  his  lonely  room, 
By  drearful  things,  like  breathings  heard 

At  midnight  in  a  tomb. 
No  grave  can  be  so  dark  as  he, 

With  his  ghastly  dower  of  gloom. 

And  oh,  it  seems,  all  things  without, 

With  hideous  laughter  thrill ; 
And  gloaring  eyes,  all  round  about, 

The  sky  and  valley  fill ; 
And  the  moon,  a  great  red  eye  of  Hate, 

Sits  glaring  on  the  hill. 


110  THE   DARK    ROOM. 

His  fancies  shape  his  grave,  and  see 

The  coffin  rotting  slow,  — 
The  crawling  litten- worms,  in  glee, 

About  the  body  go, 
And  the  moaning  soul,  without  a  goal, 

In  darkness  walk  below. 

Oh  Sin !  how  soon  they  lose  the  vision 
Of  rainbows  round  the  gate, 

The  souls  who  leave  the  light  elysian, 
To  dwell  with  thee  in  state  ! 

Thy  rainbows  bright  are  witchfire  light, 
Where  furies  wait. 


Ill 


LITTLE  MARY— A  SKETCH. 


WITHIN  a  vale,  a  cottage  white, 
From  out  its  nest  of  vines  and  trees, 

Stole,  picturelike,  upon  the  sight, 
And  spoke  of  simple  life  and  peace. 


And  there,  each  morn,  the  dewy  air, 
With  many-scented  fragrance  fraught, 

To  hearts  that  lightly  beat  with  care, 
A  fresher  life  of  joyance  brought. 


There  dwelt  a  pair,  whose  daily  strife 
Of  mutual  love  and  careful  duty, 


112  LITTLE   MARY. 

Kept  always  fresh,  around  their  life, 

The  rarest  charms  of  homestead  beauty. 


Their  life,  that,  far  from  panting  noon, 
In  morning  freshness  round  them  lay, 

First  felt  complete  its  richest  boon, 
When  little  Mary  came  with  May : 


Then  all  their  being  glowed  and  gushed, 
With  music  that  had  slept  before, 

And  light,  whose  radiance  all  things  flushed, 
Till  earth  and  sky  their  gladness  wore. 


In  every  sweet,  delicious  claim, 
That  round  the  parent  spirit  coils, 

The  baby  brought  a  gladder  aim, 
And  firmer  strength  for  daily  toils. 


LITTLE   MARY.  113 

In  bliss,  they  watched  its  waking  gaze 
Of  curious  wonder,  vague  and  dim, 

And  smiles,  the  spirit's  dawning  rays, 
Till  oft  their  eyes  would  overbrim. 


And  when,  at  length,  in  utterance  broken, 
They  heard  the  little  creature's  voice, 

No  angel's  song  could  so  have  spoken 
To  wake  the  answering  choir  of  joys. 


She  grew,  a  beauteous  sibyl  flower, 

From  whose  unfolding  breast,  it  seemed, 

The  singing  spirits,  every  hour, 
With  fuller,  brighter  beauty  gleamed. 


Five  years  she  grew,  and  ever  made 
Their  home  with  bosom-fragrance  rife ; 


114  LITTLE   MARY. 

It  seemed,  with  them  an  angel  stayed, 
To  move  the  sweetest  founts  of  life. 


Joys  grew ;  with  daily  deepening  glow. 
Around  them  spread  the  morning  light ; 

Days  went  with  more  melodious  flow, 
And  wearying  toil  was  rich  delight. 

Their  life  appeared  a  wondrous  song, 
That  spoke  response  to  all  things  fair, 

Whose  mystic  tones,  the  air  along, 
Came  gushing  soft  from  everywhere. 


But  flowers  of  loveliness  and  grace, 
That  wear  so  bright  and  sweet  a  bloom, 

Seem  yearning  for  their  native  place, 
And  always  earliest  vanish  home. 


LITTLE  MARY.  115 

And  Oh  !  how  oft  we  fail  to  see 
The  holiest  things,  until  appears, 

When  joy's  delicious  raptures  flee, 
The  sacred  ministry  of  tears. 


The  glad,  away  from  others,  steal, 
Too  oft,  and  higher  claims  dismiss, 

In  close-shut  bowers  of  self  to  feel 
The  ecstatic  trance  of  earthly  bliss. 


Ah,  yes,  we  mortals  seek  to  spend, 
Entranced  in  bliss,  our  force  divine  ; 

We  leave  our  awful  task,  to  bend 
Our  souls  before  an  idol's  shrine. 


Therefore  the  aching  heart  is  sent, 
To  give  the  light  of  wisdom  birth, 


116  LITTLE   MARY. 

And  waken  truth,  in  souls  intent 
To  build  a  paradise  on  earth. 


They  felt  a  darkness  in  the  sky ; 

The  summer  winds  all  sang  of  sorrow ; 
The  flowers  for  something  seemed  to  sigh, 

That  would  not  come  again  to-morrow; 


For  every  sight  and  every  sound 

Had  caught  a  swooning  sense  of  gloom, 

Thrilled  through  with  air  that  flowed  around 
The  mournful  place  of  Mary's  tomb. 


How  still  in  waxen  beauty  lay, 
With  faded  rose  buds  on  its  breast, 

The  little  form,  when  borne  away 
To  lie  alone  in  coffined  rest. 


LITTLE   MARY.  117 

At  length  they  saw,  around  them,  melt 
All  through  the  gloom  that  hung  so  drear, 

A  lovelier  light,  by  which,  they  felt 
Her  radiance  in  a  brighter  sphere. 


But  Mary's  name,  a  holy  thing, 
Kept  warm  by  many  a  long  caress, 

Has  undiminished  power  to  bring 
The  pangs  of  hallowed  tenderness. 


Her  little  garments,  books,  and  toys, 
Preserved  like  things  a  saint  reveres, 

Remembrance  often,  still,  employs 
To  wake  the  tenderest  flow  of  tears. 


118 


THE  CHILD'S  GRAVE. 


SLEEP,  little  one  !  the  summer  winds  are  breathing 
A  gentle  hymn,  to  lull  thy  quiet  rest ; 

Around  thy  tomb,  with  mournful  beauty  wreath 
ing, 
The  ivy  creeps,  in  freshening  verdure  drest. 

Sleep  on,  my  love,  the  summer  flowers  are  spring 
ing, 

In  holy  peace,  above  thy  mouldering  head, 
To  guard  thy  dust,  and  from  their  bosoms  flinging 

A  mingled  sweetness  o'er  thy  silent  bed. 

We  miss  thee,  love !  thy  joyous  face,  once  blushing 
With  rosy  light,  death-shades  have  overcast ; 


THE  CHILD'S  GRAVE.  119 

And  ah !  how  oft  these  heart-felt  tears  are  gushing, 
To  think  our  eyes  on  thee  have  looked  their  last. 

We  miss  those  hours,  when  thro'  our  hearts  was 

stealing 

The  merry  music  of  thy  fairy  feet ; 
We  miss  those  hours,  when  every  pulse  of  feeling 
Thrilled  quick  and  warm,  thy  trusting  eyes  to 
greet. 

We  miss  our  babe,  when  evening  gathers  round  us; 

Thy  place  is  vacant  on  thy  mother's  breast ! 
We  wake  no  more  to  feel  the  spell  that  bound  us, 

When,   once,  to  ours  thine  infant  lips  were 
pressed ! 

Sleep,  blessed  one !  no  more  for  us  awaking ! 
The  worm  feeds  sweetly  on  our  faded  flower ; 

We  laid  thee  here ;  but,  oh,  our  hearts  were  break 
ing- 
Breaking  to  feel  Death's  unrelaxing  power. 


120  THE  CHILD'S  GRAVE. 

Where  art  thou  now?   the  soul,  that  once  was 

pouring, 
Through  this  still  dust,  a  quick,  mysterious 

glow, 
Lives  somewhere  yet ;  it  vanished,  heavenward 

soaring, 
Far  from  all  pain  and  blight,  all  earthly  wo. 

Where  dost  thou  dwell  ?    It  must  be  thou  art 
wearing 

A  radiant  light,  on  thy  enfranchised  soul, 
In  some  bright  world,  thy  part  with  angels  bearing, 

Where  hymns  of  holy  joy  forever  roll. 

To  that  deep  life,  God's  love  hath  surely  borne  thee. 

Our  cherished  one  !  —  nor  seek  we  to  reclaim ; 
How  much  we  loved,  how  much  we  miss  and 
mourn  thee, 

He  knows  alone —  and  blessed  be  his  name  ! 


121 


HOLY  LAND. 


THERE  is  a  valley,  where  abides 

A  dream  of  all  the  richest  Junes ; 
A  valley,  where  a  river  glides, 

Whose  waters  swim  in  fairy  tunes ;  — 
And  there  the  flowers,  in  summer  hours, 
In  a  world  of  sweetest  music  bom, 
Have  deeper  eyes,  and  holier  dyes, 

And  more  ethereal  dews,  at  morn. 
O  vale !  I  would  forever  be 
Enhalo'd  with  a  dream  of  thee  ! 

II. 

This  vale  had  always  seemed  to  me 
The  haunt  of  blissful  loneliness ; 


122  HOLY   LAND. 

But  ah !  how  darkly  did  I  see,  — 
How  poorly  feel  its  bright  caress ! 

No  thing  could  grieve,  the  summer  eve 
I  went  with  Jane,  along  the  stream ; 

Around  her  form,  was  floating  warm, 
A  radiance,  born  of  glee,  and  dream, 

And  witching  tone,  and  magic  motion, 

And  radiant  thought  in  tranced  devotion. 

in. 

Her  lightest  cadence  seemed  to  swim 

In  tearful  dreams  of  Holy  Land ; 
Her  eyes  looked  music,  like  a  hymn 

Of  angels,  on  the  far-off  strand :  — 
How  strangely  new  the  valley  grew  ! 

Ah !  then  my  charmed  ears  and  eyes, 
Away  from  night,  on  azure  light, 

Seemed  going  into  Paradise ! 
Baptized  in  purest  beauty,  then 
Were  all  my  senses  born  again. 


HOLY   LAND.  123 

IV. 

At  length,  within  our  vale  divine. 

The  song  of  every  bird  was  tearful , 
The  very  sunlight  seemed  to  pine ; 

The  very  flowers  were  sad  and  drearful, — 
And  quivered  thro'  their  beads  of  dew, 

Like  a  skeleton's  shivering  kiss, 
A  ghostly  glare,  as  wandered  there 

The  pale  remembrances  of  bliss. 
Oh  !  drearily  moaned  the  gloomy  river, 
For  she  would  come  no  more  forever  ! 

V. 

Like  clouds  around  a  seraph's  brow, 
The  ghastly  gloom  transfigured  grew ; 

A  glorious  temple  music  now 
Are  winds  that  all  so  sadly  blew ;  — • 

She  meets  me  there,  she  charms  the  air ; 
And  earth  becomes  a  far-off  shore 

Of  misty  dreams,  as  round  us  gleams 


124  HOLY   LAND. 

The  world  that  shines  forevermore. 
No  form  but  hers,  must  ever  stand 
With  me,  in  this  our  holy  land. 


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